


Cover Charge Not Included

by ConsultingOtter (FourCornersHolmes), FourCornersHolmes



Series: The Assorted & Collected Misadventures of John H. Watson, RAMC, MD [5]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF John, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Mentioned Not Featured, No Mary, No Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, No Series 4, Not Canon Compliant, Post Series 2, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, What Series 4?, never heard of it, post series 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 17:53:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16979154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/ConsultingOtter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/FourCornersHolmes
Summary: It's been five years since Sherlock Holmes last saw John Watson. A very long, very lonely five years. John has moved on with his life, but apparently not as thoroughly as Sherlock initially believed. A night out on the town leads Sherlock back into the arms of the one and only person who has ever really understood and loved him, and he doesn't know if he can let go again. Or even if he wants to.





	1. A Night Out

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by several prompts, one fanart and a legit prompt. I make no apologies.

* * *

* * *

The music drifted out of the club like a vibrating pulse. Sherlock could feel it in his bones. The night was alive with possibility. He could even imagine himself sticking around the venue long enough to hook up with someone for a one-night stand. No names, no strings attached, just a good old fashion fuck and gone before sunrise. But who the fuck would ever look twice at him? The dark-haired genius sighed and turned away from the club, wondering what the hell he’d been thinking. He was tired, lonely, and...what? Suicidal? Desperate, maybe. And so, _so_ lonely. He tried to remember how long it had been since the last time he’d seen John Watson and just...couldn’t. At least, seen him in a setting where they recognized each other.

It was mostly his fault, and Sherlock was man enough to admit it. He knew how poorly John had handled his “death”, and how badly he had underestimated the loyal man who had done everything for Sherlock and would have done more if only he had trusted him. But he hadn’t, because he wanted to keep John safe. So, he had watched, from a near distance, grieving as John moved on without him. He had a girlfriend, he proposed to her the very night Sherlock had intended to reveal himself. He hadn’t, in the end. And then John had gotten married. But it hadn’t been a happy marriage, and Sherlock could tell that John was bored.

They had often joked together that the normal married-lifestyle of most of society was not right for them. John needed excitement in his life, something to occupy himself with, just as Sherlock did. And for a whole glorious year and a half, they had found their needs fulfilled in each other. And then, Jim Moriarty had pitted Sherlock against the world and he had come out alive, but far worse for it. It had been almost two years since he had completed his final mission, since he had escaped with his life and sanity intact from Serbia? And in that time, he had not outed himself to anyone he knew. He had not seen his brother, or Molly Hooper, or Mrs Hudson, who still hadn’t let out 221B. He knew his brother was paying the rent, but as far as Mycroft knew, he was paying a dead man’s rent for a flat that would never be lived in again. And he certainly hadn’t outed himself to John Watson.

So, what was he doing here? At Hoot Club at eight o’clock on a Wednesday night? It was a strange venue, catering to the LGBTQ community of London, and he could see patrons clustering on the patio and balconies, everything from businessmen and politicos dressed in his brother’s pretentious three-piece affairs to uni students and forty-somethings in crisis wearing torn denims and faded band-shirts and leather or denim jackets. He didn’t see anyone he recognized right away, but as he walked away from the venue, passing under one of the balconies, he heard a familiar laugh and froze. He knew that laugh, he knew what it took to make that man laugh just like that, what he looked like when he did.

“John?” It was a breath of a name he hadn’t spoken out loud in almost five years. Turning around, he backed up a few paces and looked up at where he thought he’d heard the laughter. No immediate sign of John, but if that hadn’t been him, Sherlock was in far worse shape than he’d thought and hallucinating things that didn’t exist. It wouldn’t be the first time, would it? He had seen far more of John in the past five years than he’d expected to, but not _once_ had it really been him. Someone with John’s face, or a figment of a troubled, sleep-deprived mind clinging to something familiar, a fragment of an old life discarded for a quest to rid the world at large of a subtle, smiling threat. But he’d done it, he had finally, really, done it. The last of Moriarty’s network was eradicated, he had also managed a few peripheral threats to ensure the continued safety of his family and loved ones, even if they never knew he’d done a thing.

Then, Sherlock spotted him, backed against the railing of the balcony some ten feet above his head. But it didn’t _look_ like John. The man with his back to Sherlock had very short hair, just shy of a buzz-cut, that was some vague shade of greyish blond, and in spite of the cool night wore no jacket. He wore denims that had seen much wear, these tucked into a pair of sturdy black tank-boots, a black cut-off denim jacket over a white vest and a pair of red suspenders. Sherlock could see trails of ink on the man’s arms and realized they were tattoos. He had seen John in all manner of undress and had _never_ seen tattoos. Had he? Then, by some grace, the man turned and Sherlock could finally see his face. It _was_ John! It was! Oh, saints be blessed, it was him! Sherlock stood there, staring up at the vision of John Watson in clubbing gear, chatting up and flirting with the man to his left.

“Oh, John.” It was a sad utterance. All that time spent loudly proclaiming, “Not gay!” to all and sundry. But “not gay” didn’t mean “completely straight”, did it? Sherlock frowned and thought of the evidence he’d seen prior to 2011. “Not gay” indeed, but how many times had he and John gone to bed together? John had shown him that just because he was asexual didn’t mean he couldn’t _enjoy_ sex. And he had realized that he _wasn’t_ asexual. He was quite gay, and quite demiromantic. If he didn’t have some deeper emotional connection to his partner, he wasn’t going to sleep with them. And John was, if he wasn’t mistaken, bisexual and happy to sample the goods from the whole of the spectrum, not just one or two like the rest of them did. He just had a longer trail of ex-girlfriends than he did ex-boyfriends.

 

After a while, he was aware of being watched. Not by anyone wishing him harm, but just a casual, curious gaze. He was one of many people crowding the footpath for Hoot tonight, just another face among hundreds. Sherlock wore nondescript clothes suitable to the venue, a far cry from his usual get-up. Tonight he wore fitted skinny-jeans, a pair of John’s old desert-boots that he had recovered on one of many visits to London, and a red V-neck that was a hair shy of too tight and barely reached his waistband, above which a peek of his underwear was visible. His hair was much shorter than it had been five years ago, and he had lined his eyes. Not obviously like some blokes did, just a hint of it. He didn’t get out very often, not for something like this, so it was exciting and liberating to be out tonight among his own kind. Even if he was feeling rather sorry for himself and probably should have stayed home by himself.

Sherlock looked up again and made eye contact with John. He couldn’t tell if his clever friend had recognized him, but that hand-gesture was very familiar to him and he smiled brightly, waving to show he’d gotten the message. As he ducked into the queue of people waiting to get into the club, he heard a soft, shrill whistle and looked up yet again. This time just in time to catch something dropped from the balcony above. He caught it and opened the billfold, extracting an item from inside before closing it again. With practised ease, he tossed the billfold back up, waited until he saw it slide into John’s back pocket, and pocketed the card and the bills. With purpose in his stride, Sherlock headed for the front of the line. When he got there, he waved the card at the bouncers, who took the card and checked it against a list.

“Name?”

“Watson?”

“Go ahead.” A mark was placed on the list and he ducked the velvet rope. The first thing he did was run upstairs to the first floor, where he stopped by the bar and got drinks. Hennessey for himself, Connemara for John. As soon as he had the drinks, he headed for the balcony where he’d last seen John. From a distance was one thing, up close was…breathtaking. In fact, he stopped dead in his tracks in the doorway and stared. Oh. My god. Sherlock stared for what felt like several minutes, committing every detail of this to memory for the rest of his miserable days. There was something about the way the lights of the club, and the street outside, caught on John’s hair, the lines of his face, reflecting in his eyes like stars in a clear night sky.

He got a better look at the tattoos he had noticed earlier and realized that he _had_ seen them before, it had just been so very long since. On the left upper arm, from shoulder to just above the elbow, was a black line-art tattoo of a caduceus, the Rod of Asclepius and the two snakes; on the right, a quarter-sleeve tattoo in full, vibrant colour of the coat of arms of the Royal Army Medical Corps that stretched from shoulder to elbow; and peeking above the collar of his shirt, an anatomically correct heart. The arteries and aortic arch were clearly visible in strokes of black ink against pale skin that held just a hint of tan, and Sherlock recalled where the knotted lines of the scar on John’s chest broke up the lines of the tattoo. A reminder of just how frighteningly close they had come to losing each other without knowing. And how many times since 2011 had the same damn thing happened? Sherlock sighed and took a fortifying sip of his drink, leaning against the door to watch. He didn’t even notice John was gone until a hand landed on his arm and tightened, until a puff of warm breath hit the side of his neck as he was used as leverage to get John up on tip-toe.

“Is that for me?”

“And this, too.” He handed over the glass of whiskey and fetched up the card and change.

“Keep that. I’ll take the card.” He didn’t have to look to know John was smiling. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Least I can do, innit? After all that trouble?”

“That’s a hell of a lot to make up for, son.” John’s voice was soft, remarkably steady, as he took a sip of his drink. Sherlock felt his grip tighten and wondered when the shouting would start, when the abuse would come, when he would get what he so richly deserved for abandoning John and everyone else because he had been selfish and stupid and didn’t see any way out except alone.

 

Spots opened up on the balcony and Sherlock guided John back out onto the balcony. It got quiet between them, but it was that familiar, pleasant quiet Sherlock had missed so badly it made his chest ache to remember better days. John’s hopeful Romeo slinked off to find an easier target after realizing that John wasn’t quite as interested or available as he might’ve hoped at first. Someone on the balcony lit up a cigarette and Sherlock inhaled deeply. Oh, god, what he wouldn’t give for a cigarette. Letting out a slow breath, he took a sip of his drink and tried to keep his fingers from twitching. But John was observant and knew his habits and vices better than anyone else in London, and gave a soft chuckle as he turned and set his glass down on a handy nearby table.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked softly, not wanting to disturb the peace that had settled between them like it hadn’t been five long, miserable years for both of them, like Sherlock hadn’t risked his life and nearly died more times than he cared to remember, like John hadn’t gotten married in what had turned out to be one of the most disastrous mistakes of _his_ life.

“I’m not stupid, Sherlock.” John’s voice was equally soft as he produced from his pockets an unopened pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter. He ripped the cellophane off with his teeth and flicked the lid up with his thumb as Sherlock quietly took the wrapping from him and stuffed it into a pocket.

“I never, ever said you were stupid.”

“Called me an idiot, though.” Not an ounce of heat or hate behind those words. Sherlock chuckled, a broken sound that got stuck in his throat as John shook two cigarettes loose and put one between his teeth before handing the other one to Sherlock.

“Well, you are.”

“Next to you, love, we’re all fools and morons who can’t see the light for having our heads so far up our own arses.” Muffled by the cigarette and the click of the lighter.

“Ah, but you’re one of the smartest.” He amended. John simply lifted the lighter to the end of the cigarette he had given Sherlock before pocketing the whole lot again.

“Ta.”

“Pleasure.”

“Mine? Or yours?” He couldn’t help it. John just coughed in surprise.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” He croaked once he had his breath back, Sherlock had smacked him between the shoulders to help if he could. “Are you mad?”

“Possible. Jury’s still out on that account.”                                                                                                                           

“Posh bastard.” John recovered, covered his mouth, coughed again, and reached for his drink. Sherlock handed it to him and let their fingers touch.

“You must be terribly angry with me.”

“Annoyed, actually. Angry was three years ago. Five, maybe. Heartbroken was five. Angry was three or four. Now I’m just bloody exhausted and annoyed.”

“I’m so sorry, John.” He sighed and leaned against the railing, glass in one hand, cigarette in the other, looking out on the bustling street below. The music thrummed in his bones, in his ears, but it wasn’t as loud as he’d thought it should be.

“So am I.”

“For _what_?”

“I…abandoned you, Sherlock. Spilt my guts over your grave, and then a few months later I turn around and forget about you completely.” A sniffle, a stiffening of his shoulders. “I wish I could say you would have adored Mary, but...maybe you would’ve. I don’t know, she was so…so…”

“I think deceitful is the word you’re looking for, John.”

“That’s _a_ word for her, that’s for damn sure,” John muttered, pausing to take a draw of his fag before blowing a stream of smoke into the night. “Fuck.”

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“Why aren’t you angry with me?”

“Well, for one thing, I recognized you the minute I set eyes on you on the street down there. Thought I was imagining it, but we’ve been _here_ , at this location, together before. And there’s only one bloke in the world I know who looks even a bit like you. Even if you did do something rather unfortunate with your hair.”

“Oh, it’ll grow back!” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “And speak for yourself! What’s all of this, then?”

“This is Confirmed Bachelor John Watson on the pull, looking for the best potential target to fill an empty, cold bed for a night.” A shrug and another sip of the whiskey, “Like it?”

“I…love it. I nearly didn’t recognize you.”

“Well, to be fair, love, I was up here, almost eleven feet above your head, and I had my back to you the first time.”

“But I would know you in any crowd, John.” He looked over, “I’m trying to decide what it is you’ve done with your hair and why you did it.”

“Likely the same rubbish you excused yourself with when you did _that_ to yours.” A sharp look at his hair, which was quite a bit shorter than it had been. “I do like it, though. Still has a bit of curl to it.”

“Hm. And yours, I imagine, is going to grow out a rather fetching silver?”

“I’m forty-five years old, Sherlock, I should _not_ be completely grey yet.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad, is it?”                   

“It is, too! Lucky bastard, you’ll be the one salt-and-peppered with those gorgeous curls.”

“Can’t call you Silver Fox, can I?”

“Nope. Don’t even _think_ about it.” He got a dirty look for that and he chuckled. Worth it to at least ask, wasn’t it? And if John decided he wanted to take Sherlock home, wherever that happened to be, Sherlock was not going to turn him down. Just this was fine, chatting over drinks and cigarettes, but he was not against more. He was not against spending the fading hours of the night in John Watson’s bed.


	2. Take Me Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock wrap up their night at the club and head home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes returns to Baker Street.

* * *

* * *

They must have wasted nearly three hours out on that balcony, drinking and smoking like the old friends they were. When they were down to dog-ends, they scraped out the fags, dumped the stubs in Sherlock’s glass, which had a half-sip of alcohol he had no interest in finishing anyway, and went inside to close their tabs. Then it was downstairs through a mass of humanity, Sherlock leading the way, John’s hand tight in his, out to the bustling street where he materialized a taxi, and John gave an address somewhere in…Baker Street?

“221B Baker Street, please. Direct route. Ta.”

“I thought you didn’t live there anymore, John.” He whispered once they were underway.

“Not for a long bloody time, but Mrs Hudson never took my key, y’know? Wouldn’t let me give it back, absolutely refused to rent the bloody place.”

“When did you move back in?”

“Oh, hell…three months ago? Not the same without you, though. Bloody lonely place.” John looked at him briefly, eyes misty in the ambient lights, “Mary wanted to live there, but I wouldn’t let her. Told ‘er there were too many memories, too many ghosts. But really…”

“You didn’t want to defile a sacred place.”

“Yep.”

“John…I am _so_ sorry.”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself or so God help me I will beat it into your head that _I don’t blame you_. I did, at first, for a long time, but I don’t anymore, and I never should have.” John looked out the window.

“But I hurt you, I didn’t mean to. I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“The wrong thing for the right reasons. I forgive you, Sherlock, you were trying to keep me safe.”

“So…now what?”

“Well, right now? We’re going home. Mrs Hudson should be asleep, probably won’t wake her.”

“It’s Mrs Hudson, you _know_ she’ll pop out the minute we get that door open.” He chuckled, thinking of every time the two of them had stumbled home exhausted, trying to be quiet and failing, only to be caught like tardy children out past curfew by their very patient landlady. All she had ever really done was scold them for the hour and send them off to bed. Sometimes she had banished them upstairs and come up a bit later with tea and demanded a full telling of whatever misadventures they’d gotten up to that night.

When they got to Baker Street, he let John worry about getting the door open and paid the fare, making sure to tip the driver. The house was dark and warm and it smelled like home. A bit musty, but it was home enough for his transient soul. Closing the door, he locked it and leaned his head back.

“Smells like home.”

“Come on, you great idiot.” John had him by the hand and was pulling him along. Tired and drunk, they made it as far as the stairs. One of them tripped, he wasn’t sure who went down first, but he felt the ground lurch and choked, grabbing hold of…something. It was John, who pitched over himself and they landed with a bit of commotion on the stairs.

“Ow!”

“Jesus, Sherlock! You’re a proper klutz, aren’t you?” John laughed, “C’mere.”

“Fuck.” He muttered, looking up the stairs and deciding it just wasn’t worth the effort right now. John pulled him close and somehow, they fell asleep on the stairs going up to 221B. It wasn’t very comfortable, but…well, what for it? He had no idea how long it had been when he was aware of a door opening and footsteps. And then “Oh, John! What happened?”

“Um? Oh, s-sorry, Mrs H.” John stirred and raised his head, “Didn’t wake you, did we?”

“What on earth are you boys up to?”

“Ugh. What’s the time?”

“Just past eleven. You two look terrible! Long night?”

“One word for it.” Sherlock groaned and heaved himself upright, or tried to. “Hudders.”

“Well, what a sight! Sherlock Holmes! You’re alive!” She didn’t sound at _all_ surprised to find him passed out on the stairs. Then again, it took an awful lot to surprise his landlady, god bless her.

“Mostly?” He winced.

“Oh, you silly idiot! You bloody selfish thing!” She put her hands on her hips and gave him a familiar, mildly disgusted look, “You gave us a lot more trouble than you are worth, young man, I hope you have a good explanation for it all!”

“Did it for us, Mrs Hudson. Every awful thing was for us.” John sighed and got to his feet, a slow process, reaching out one hand to Sherlock. “Come on, you, we are not sleeping out here.”

“Oh, no you’re not! Sherlock, you owe me an explanation!”

“Later, Mrs Hudson?”

“Oh, of course!” She just stood at the bottom of the stairs, beaming but sad, as John hauled Sherlock to his feet and they made their way very slowly up the stairs. “I suppose I’m not to tell anyone about this?”

“Er…probably not. Least not…’til  I’ve managed to inform my brother of things.”

“Mycroft knows.”

“No, not this. Thinks I’m dead, actually.”

“Oh?” The light in John’s eyes was wicked, “I know something the all-knowing Antarctica Holmes _doesn’t_! Hah! Fancy thing, that!”

“Good night, boys!” Mrs Hudson called cheerfully from the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll have earplugs in!”

“Good night, Mrs Hudson!”

It wasn’t much longer before the door of 221B slammed shut, causing Mrs Hudson to shout up at them.

“Boys! Door!”

“Sorry, Mrs Hudson!” They shouted in unison, dissolving in a fit of childish, frantic giggling and clumsy fumbling. Somehow, they made their way through the flat that had been home to them and was still home to John, avoiding any and all obstacles on the floor in the process. Getting to the back bedroom, they left a trail of clothes in their wake. Once inside, the door was locked and the remaining clothes were discarded in a tangled heap. John grabbed Sherlock and dragged him into the bathroom, where he ran the shower.

“I’ve been in and out of the country for the last six months, I haven’t been _home_ for more than a week or two altogether. I want a proper hot shower, god damn it.”

“And then?”                                                                                                                           

“And then I’m going to remind you, us, of the best part of being us.” John smiled up at him, that bright, smug smile that had been just for Sherlock.

“After  you, Doctor!” Sherlock grinned and followed John into the shower. The hot water felt absolutely glorious and despite John’s intimation that he had plans for post-shower antics, they took their sweet time. As he washed away the cares and grime of daily life, Sherlock noticed new and different scars on John’s body, scars that had not been there five years ago. Some were quite old and faded white, others were much newer and still healing up.

“What was _this_ from?” He traced one scar along John’s rib-cage. “This looks like knife-work?”

“Oh, you should have _seen_ Q’s face when I dragged back looking more dead than alive. Three months in Cambodia and I nearly got myself killed in the last two weeks.” John squinted, half-blind in the water, soap running down his face, “Oh, And Medical? Let’s just say it’s a _good_ thing I’m an ex-Army Medic.”

“What were you doing in Cambodia?”

“Work. Beautiful country, beautiful people when they’re not trying to kill you. And the food is quite good. Just don’t drink the water.”

“Work?” Sherlock finished rinsing off, noticing that he would now smell like John’s body wash. Something cheap and neutral but so very familiar.

“Mhm. I’ve been about as busy as you have, I imagine.” John shook the water out of his eyes and reached for the handle, turning the water off. A blast of cold water hit them both before the water went off, and Sherlock glared at John, who just smiled at him and fetched up warm towels.

“I must have missed something.”

“Obviously.”

“So…” He watched John as he moved around, his routine and movements as familiar as ever, and he took some kind of comfort in that. John had a towel around his waist, that same towel was used to dry his hair. That scar he had noticed earlier was easier to see now and he made a subtle, closer study of it. It was knife-work, alright, and it looked like John might have turned away just in the nick of time, given its location and apparent depth.

“John!”

“Oh, no you don’t.” John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock, eyes narrow, “I’ve been as many unspeakable places as you have in five years, Sherlock.”

“How? Doing _what_?”

“Well, to be completely honest with you, I was making sure _you_ didn’t get killed off while you were dealing with Moriarty’s network.”

“But…”

“I’m not stupid, Sherlock, you know that. I understand _why_ you didn’t tell me anything, but a hint would have made all the bloody difference in the world so I didn’t have to find out the hard way two years later when I found myself in Pakistan tracking down a rogue agent who had gone off-radar and wasn’t making his check-ins.” John smirked, “And I thought James Bond was a proper menace.”

“Wait…what were you doing in Pakistan? In 2013?”

“Grieving the loss of one of the most spectacular, talented women I’ve ever met, the woman closest to a mother to me and several other people. They wouldn’t let me near the Spectre and Nine-Eyes mess, which made sense in hindsight, but not at the time.” John shook his head, looking up at Sherlock from an angle as he dried his hair. “I spent three weeks shacked up in James’s flat while we kept each other from either swallowing our guns or taking off AWOL to hunt down the bastards and make them pay for what they’d done to us. When they let us loose, we were bound and determined to do our jobs so fucking well they couldn’t keep us out again. Q was a huge help.”

“You’re…”

“One of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.” John straightened and went to hang up his towels, “Trust me, Sherlock, it’s exactly what you think.”

“You were in Pakistan on a surveillance mission, you must have been. Just keep eyes on, but licensed to act if necessary.” He remembered that particular mission of his, and the constant nagging feeling that he was being followed. But he had never noticed anything out of the ordinary or managed to make his tail. There had been one or two times he’d _thought_ he saw someone, but because he kept seeing John, he’d chalked it up to desperate loneliness.

“I wasn’t seeing things. You were there.”

“Yes, I was. And a few of the other more unsavoury places you’ve visited.”

“John, you have better things to do than follow me around the world and keep me out of trouble.”

“No, I don’t really. And I wouldn’t be happy doing anything else.” John smiled and came up alongside him, “I knew you weren’t dead, Sherlock.”

“I’m sorry I lied to you.”

“You had a good reason to. Not that I believed you for a minute, of course.”

“So…what now?”

“Well, we wait a month or two, you make a grand, splashy return from the dead, having never _been_ dead in the first place, and we move on with our lives.” John shrugged and found a pair of pyjama bottoms and a tee-shirt, tossing them at Sherlock, “Preferably together. I’ve had enough of living by myself or trying with someone who didn’t deserve it.”

“Mary?”

“She almost got me killed, Sherlock, and if M didn’t like me as much as he does, I wouldn’t have a _job_ no thanks to that bitch.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.” John’s expression was…violent? Sherlock shook his head. It didn’t matter how that had ended. All that mattered was that it had, the woman known as Mary Morstan was dead, and John was free to move on with his life as he saw fit.

“I’m sorry, John.”

“Would you stop saying that? What are you sorry for now?”

“For abandoning you like that. Can you ever forgive me?”

“I forgave you a long time ago, Sherlock.” John pulled a tee-shirt over his head and smiled at Sherlock, “And really, I’m just glad you’re alive.”

“Me, too.” He sighed and took John’s hand. The bed was as large and soft as he remembered, the mattress felt too squishy to be the one he’d slept on before 2011, but it was familiar. It didn’t take long to get situated, and he found himself in a very familiar, very comfortable position. Whatever John did with MI6 kept him in excellent physical condition, he was missing much of the softness he had acquired living with Sherlock after leaving the Army. Sherlock made note of old curves and new ones, found new scars in new places, badges of honourable service in the name of The Crown. Touching led to kissing, kissing led to other more interesting, more intimate activities, and Sherlock revelled in the sound of his name uttered in soft gasps and curses.

He fell asleep that night wrapped around a warm body, satisfactorily exhausted and sore in the right places for the right reasons, content to be safe with one of the only people he’d ever met who loved him despite his flaws and vices and loved him _for_ them all the same. One thought he had before he fell asleep was, was John a Double-Oh, and if he _was_ , what was his number? And since it was obvious John had seen past the ruse to fake his death _again_ two years ago after Serbia, why hadn’t he told anyone else? Why hadn’t he said something at the beginning? Well, that was easy. If he was any sort of agent worth his number, he knew the value of keeping his mouth shut about certain things. So, even under great duress and threat of death, he would never, ever admit to anyone that he knew Sherlock Holmes was alive.

* * *

* * *

 


End file.
